OPEN | "The old ways are lost," you sang as you flew

[mythalenaste]

WHO: Pel + YOU
WHAT: Open log for April/Cloudreach
WHEN: Cloudreach
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Will update with any warnings.

Arrival

Between the cramped ship and the stuffy warehouse, Pel feels like cargo. It's also hot, or it feels that way to her. Everything that was comfortable has gone, except for familiar people she doesn't know how to approach for a hug. She's not accustomed to asking for care.

So rather than her usual aloofness, Pel looks genuinely shaken, even depressed, and altogether wan and sleepless.

Early- to Mid-month

By the third day, Pel has shut herself up in a small room in the warehouse. There are frequent flashes of light underneath the door. Posted is a sign:

​I AM NOT DEAD OR POSSESSED
ANCIENT AND VERY PRECISE MAGIC BEING WORKED

If you mu​​st reach me, see the below instructions:

1. KNOCK.
2. If there is no answer, please get help.
2.a. If you are a mage and believe you can help, please do so.
2.b. If you are not a mage, please find a mage who can help.
2.b.a. Or Alistair or Knight-Commander Norrington. No other Templars.
3. If I answer, state your name and your business but do not enter.
4. If I give you EXPLICIT permission to enter, wait until all the lights you can see from under the door are gone before opening the door.
5. If I do not give you EXPLICIT permission to enter, do not enter.
5.a. Not even if you are a mage.
5.b. Not even if you are a close friend.
5.c. Not even if you think of something horrible that might be happening.
5.d. Not even if you have a delightful prank in mind.
6. If I have not come out for several days, please bring food.
6.a. NOTHING WITH EGGS IN IT.
7. If confused, please refer to the top line of this sign and read on from there.

Lowtown Bazaar

One or two days out of the month, Pel puts on a dress, girds her sword, and goes down to the bazaar. It's different from Halamshiral's slums--cleaner, with less fear and loathing. And there is a host of street food she has wanted to try out since hearing about this place.

One stall has fried Antivan doughnuts that melt on the tongue, sweet and spicy. Orlesian sweets, quiches (ew no no eggs), cakes. Broiled cheese scraped and spread like butter on peppered potatoes. Delicate crepes wrapped around candied fruit and nuts. Creamy yogurt with mint and lime. Skewers of charred beef. A massive variety of incredibly fresh seafood, seasoned and grilled on a stick or sometimes simply boiled or even raw. Rich cream cakes. Nevarran-style sausages with pickled cabbage. Vats of savory noodles. Tender chicken giblets in a spicy broth. Exotic fresh fruits. Fatty, juicy pork and pickled vegetables wrapped up in hot, crispy flatbread. Stewed intestines, fried sweet potatoes, stewed chicken with chewy dumplings. Almost all of this is incredibly cheap--not the fresh seafood, especially not the lobster, but nearly everything else. The places serving it aren't exactly clean, some downright filthy, but most of the food is delicious. Just don't get food poisoning.

Come with her on a food adventure?

Comments

[mythalenaste]

Say what now? Warden, war, wait what?

Pel holds up a hand. "Back up a moment. Who is this woman?"

Is it possible that Alistair's mother is even more special than his father? She sounds kinda badass. In her mind, she's raking over what she knows about shemlen wars within the lifetime of someone old enough to be Alistair's mother. A Warden, not a Fereldan rebel (probably). Met and fell in love (?) with King Maric. Maybe a Fereldan after all, and this was a pre-Warden meeting? Wardens aren't supposed to be all that fertile. She doesn't think she's heard of any Wardens starting wars. She's a mage and an elf, though. Mage, elf, Warden, started a war.

No matter what, she has to be the most interesting person Pel has ever heard of.

[byblow]

Oh.

"Grandenchanterfiona," he says, quick and quiet and behind a hand that's sheepishly rubbing his mouth.

She's definitely even more special than Maric.

[mythalenaste]

"Granden--" It takes her a second. Granden Chanter. Grand Enchanter. What was the Grand Enchanter's name again?

It clicks, and she scowls at him, takes a pillow off her cot, and playfully socks him in the face with it.

"Your parents have no right," she says with false indignancy, "to be that interesting." She tosses the pillow back on the cot. "Honestly, Alistair, if your father doesn't want to be found, I wouldn't worry about searching for his blighted royal ass. But if you do, I want you to know I will do anything for you. You have only to ask."

[byblow]

The pillow makes him grin, though it briefly dips at what she says—they really are terribly interesting, two names for the history books, worthy of whole paragraphs or possibly their own chapters, and he's—

not going to mope.

"Thank you," he says. "And thank you for not telling me to stop being a selfish prick, unloading all of this on you when you have your own problems. You could have. I should probably bring you something to say thank you. Maybe... food. Grilled potatoes?"

[mythalenaste]

Problems? She has problems? Does this look like the face of a single, outclan, eight-months-pregnant woman with problems?

"I don't have problems," she understates. "I have an incredible career, I'm starting my family, and I have the most wonderful and supportive friends anyone could ask for."

A beat.

"Are grilled potatoes all you can make?"

[byblow]

"I wasn't going to make them, Maker," Alistair says, putting a hand to his heart in shock. "I was going to get them from someone who won't kill you. But if you'd like to risk that, I do make amazing burned rabbit and Fereldan grey mash-o'-everything."